四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第30部分

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　he　has　fallen　under　the　harshest　lordship　the　modern　world　has　known……that　of　scientific　industrialism；　and　all　his　vigorous　qualities　are　subdued　to　a　scheme　of　life　based　upon　the　harsh；　the　ugly；　the　sordid。　His　racial　heritage；　of　course；　marks　him　to　the　eye；　even　as　ploughman　or　shepherd；　he　differs　notably　from　him　of　the　same　calling　in　the　weald　or　on　the　downs。　But　the　frank　brutality　of　the　man　in　all　externals　has　been　encouraged；　rather　than　mitigated；　by　the　course　his　civilization　has　taken；　and　hence　it　is　that；　unless　one　knows　him　well　enough　to　respect　him；　he　seems　even　yet　stamped　with　the　half…savagery　of　his　folk　as　they　were　a　century　and　a　half　ago。　His　fierce　shyness；　his　arrogant　self…regard；　are　notes　of　a　primitive　state。　Naturally；　he　never　learnt　to　house　himself　as　did　the　Southerner；　for　climate；　as　well　as　social　circumstance；　was　unfavourable　to　all　the　graces　of　life。　And　now　one　can　only　watch　the　encroachment　of　his　rule　upon　that　old；　that　true　England　whose　strength　and　virtue　were　so　differently　manifested。　This　fair　broad　land　of　the　lovely　villages　signifies　little　save　to　the　antiquary；　the　poet；　the　painter。　Vainly；　indeed；　should　I　show　its　beauty　and　its　peace　to　the　observant　foreigner；　he　would　but　smile；　and；　with　a　glance　at　the　traction…　engine　just　ing　along　the　road；　indicate　the　direction　of　his　thoughts。
XV
Nothing　in　all　Homer　pleases　me　more　than　the　bedstead　of　Odysseus。　I　have　tried　to　turn　the　passage　describing　it　into　English　verse；　thus：…
Here　in　my　garth　a　goodly　olive　grew；　Thick　was　the　noble　leafage　of　its　prime；　And　like　a　carven　column　rose　the　trunk。　This　tree　about　I　built　my　chamber　walls；　Laying　great　stone　on　stone；　and　roofed　them　well；　And　in　the　portal　set　a　ely　door；　Stout…hinged　and　tightly　closing。　Then　with　axe　I　lopped　the　leafy　olive's　branching　head；　And　hewed　the　bole　to　four…square　shapeliness；　And　smoothed　it；　craftsmanlike；　and　grooved　and　pierced；　Making　the　rooted　timber；　where　it　grew；　A　corner　of　my　couch。　Labouring　on；　I　fashioned　all　the　bed…frame；　which　plete；　The　wood　I　overlaid　with　shining　gear　Of　gold；　of　silver；　and　of　ivory。　And　last；　between　the　endlong　beams　I　stretched　Stout　thongs　of　ox…hide；　dipped　in　purple　dye。
Odyssey；　xxiii。　190…201。
Did　anyone　ever　imitate　the　admirable　precedent？　Were　I　a　young　man；　and　an　owner　of　land；　assuredly　I　would　do　so。　Choose　some　goodly　tree；　straight…soaring；　cut　away　head　and　branches；　leave　just　the　clean　trunk　and　build　your　house　about　it　in　such　manner　that　the　top　of　the　rooted　timber　rises　a　couple　of　feet　above　your　bedroom　floor。　The　trunk　need　not　be　manifest　in　the　lower　part　of　the　house；　but　I　should　prefer　to　have　it　so；　I　am　a　tree…　worshipper；　it　should　be　as　the　visible　presence　of　a　household　god。　And　how　could　one　more　nobly　symbolize　the　sacredness　of　Home？　There　can　be　no　home　without　the　sense　of　permanence；　and　without　home　there　is　no　civilization……as　England　will　discover　when　the　greater　part　of　her　population　have　bee　flat…inhabiting　nomads。　In　some　ideal　monwealth；　one　can　imagine　the　Odyssean　bed　a　normal　institution；　every　head　of　a　household；　cottager　or　lord　（for　the　monwealth　must　have　its　lords；　go　to！）；　lying　down　to　rest；　as　did　his　fathers；　in　the　Chamber　of　the　Tree。　This；　one　fancies；　were　a　somewhat　more　fitting　nuptial　chamber　than　the　chance　bedroom　of　a　hotel。　Odysseus　building　his　home　is　man　performing　a　supreme　act　of　piety；　through　all　the　ages　that　picture　must　retain　its　profound　significance。　Note　the　tree　he　chose；　the　olive；　sacred　to　Athena；　emblem　of　peace。　When　he　and　the　wise　goddess　meet　together　to　scheme　destruction　of　the　princes；　they　sit　＇Greek　text＇。　Their　talk　is　of　bloodshed；　true；　but　in　punishment　of　those　who　have　outraged　the　sanctity　of　the　hearth；　and　to　re…establish；　after　purification；　domestic　calm　and　security。　It　is　one　of　the　dreary　aspects　of　modern　life　that　natural　symbolism　has　all　but　perished。　We　have　no　consecrated　tree。　The　oak　once　held　a　place　in　English　hearts；　but　who　now　reveres　it？……our　trust　is　in　gods　of　iron。　Money　is　made　at　Christmas　out　of　holly　and　mistletoe；　but　who　save　the　vendors　would　greatly　care　if　no　green　branch　were　procurable？　One　symbol；　indeed；　has　obscured　all　others……the　minted　round　of　metal。　And　one　may　safely　say　that；　of　all　the　ages　since　a　coin　first　became　the　symbol　of　power；　ours　is　that　in　which　it　yields　to　the　majority　of　its　possessors　the　poorest　return　in　heart's　contentment。
XVI
I　have　been　dull　to…day；　haunted　by　the　thought　of　how　much　there　is　that　I　would　fain　know；　and　how　little　I　can　hope　to　learn。　The　scope　of　knowledge　has　bee　so　vast。　I　put　aside　nearly　all　physical　investigation；　to　me　it　is　naught；　or　only；　at　moments；　a　matter　of　idle　curiosity。　This　would　seem　to　be　a　considerable　clearing　of　the　field；　but　it　leaves　what　is　practically　the　infinite。　To　run　over　a　list　of　only　my　favourite　subjects；　those　to　which；　all　my　life　long；　I　have　more　or　less　applied　myself；　studies　which　hold　in　my　mind　the　place　of　hobbies；　is　to　open　vistas　of　intellectual　despair。　In　an　old　note…book　I　jotted　down　such　a　list……〃things　I　hope　to　know；　and　to　know　well。〃　I　was　then　four　and　twenty。　Reading　it　with　the　eyes　of　fifty…four；　I　must　needs　laugh。　There　appear　such　modest　items　as　〃The　history　of　the　Christian　Church　up　to　the　Reformation〃……〃all　Greek　poetry〃……〃The　field　of　Mediaeval　Romance〃……〃German　literature　from　Lessing　to　Heine〃……〃Dante！〃　Not　one　of　these　shall　I　ever　〃know；　and　know　well〃；　not　any　one　of　them。　Yet　here　I　am　buying　books　which　lead　me　into　endless　paths　of　new　temptation。　What　have　I　to　do　with　Egypt？　Yet　I　have　been　beguiled　by　Flinders　Petrie　and　by　Maspero。　How　can　I　pretend　to　meddle　with　the　ancient　geography　of　Asia　Minor？　Yet　here　have　I　bought　Prof。　Ramsay's　astonishing　book；　and　have　even　read　with　a　sort　of　troubled　enjoyment　a　good　many　pages　of　it；　troubled；　because　I　have　but　to　reflect　a　moment；　and　I　see　that　all　this　kind　of　thing　is　mere　futile　effort　of　the　intellect　when　the　time　for　serious　intellectual　effort　is　over。
It　all　means；　of　course；　that；　owing　to　defective　opportunity；　owing；　still　more　perhaps；　to　lack　of　method　and　persistence；　a　possibility　that　was　in　me　has　been　wasted；　lost。　My　life　has　been　merely　tentative；　a　broken　series　of　false　starts　and　hopeless　new　beginnings。　If　I　allowed　myself　to　indulge　that　mood；　I　could　revolt　against　the　ordinance　which　allows　me　no　second　chance。　O　mihi　praeteritos　referat　si　Jupiter　annos！　If　I　could　but　start　again；　with　only　the　experience　there　gained！　I　mean；　make　a　new　beginning　of　my　intellectual　life；　nothing　else；　O　heaven！　nothing　else。　Even　amid　poverty；　I　could　do　so　much　better；　keeping　before　my　eyes　some　definite；　some　not　unattainable；　good；　sternly　dismissing　the　impracticable；　the　wasteful。
And；　in　doing　so；　bee　perhaps　an　owl…eyed　pedant；　to　whom　would　be　for　ever　dead　the　possibility　of　such　enjoyment　as　I　know　in　these　final　years。　Who　can　say？　Perhaps　the　sole　condition　of　my　progress　to　this　state　of　mind　and　heart　which　make　my　happiness　was　that　very　stumbling　and　erring　which　I　so　regret。
XVII
Why　do　I　give　so　much　of　my　time　to　the　reading　of　history？　Is　it　in　any　sense　profitable　to　me？　What　new　light　can　I　hope　for　on　the　nature　of　man？　What　new　guidance　for　the　direction　of　my　own　life　through　the　few　years　that　may　remain　to　me？　But　it　is　with　no　such　purpose　that　I　read　these　voluminous　books；　they　gratify……or　seem　to　gratify……a　mere　curiosity；　and　scarcely　have　I　closed　a　volume；　when　the　greater　part　of　what　I　have　read　in　it　is　forgotten。
Heaven　forbid　that　I　should　remember　all！　Many　a　time　I　have　said　to　myself　that　I　would　close　the　dreadful　record　of　human　life；　lay　it　for　ever　aside；　and　try　to　forget　it。　Somebody　declares　that　history　is　a　manifestation　of　the　triumph　of　good　over　evil。　The　good　prevails　now　and　then；　no　doubt；　but　how　local　and　transitory　is　such　triumph。　If　historic　tomes　had　a　voice；　it　would　sound　as　one　long　moan　of　anguish。　Think　steadfastly　of　the　past；　and　one　sees　that　only　by　defect　of　imaginative　power　can　any　man　endure　to　dwell　with　it。　History　is　a　nightmare　of　horrors；　we　relish　it；　because　we　love　pictures；　and　because　all　that　man　has　suffered　is　to　man　rich　in　interest。　But　make　real　to　yourself　the　vision　of　every　blood…stained　page……stand　in　the　presence　of　the　ravening　conqueror；　the　savage　tyrant……tread　the　stones　of　the　dungeon　and　of　the　torture…room……feel　the　fire　of　the　stake……hear　the　cries　of　that　multitude　which　no　man　can　number；　the　victims　of　calamity；　of　oppression；　of　fierce　injustice　in　its　myriad　forms；　in　every　land；　in　every　age……and　what　joy　have　you　of　your　historic　reading？　One　would　need　to　be　a　devil　to　understand　it　thus；　and　yet　to　delight　in　it。
Injustice……there　is　the　loathed　crime　which　curses　the　memory　of　the　world。　The　slave　doomed　by　his　lord's　caprice　to　perish　under　tortures……one　feels　it　a　dreadful　and　intolerable　thing；　but　it　is　merely　the　crude　presentment　of　what　has　been　done　and　endured　a　million　times　in　every　stage　of　civilization。　Oh；　the　last　thoughts　of　those　who　have　agonized　unto　death　amid　wrongs　to　which　no　man　would　give　ear！　That　appeal　of　innocence　in　anguish　to　the　hard；　mute　heavens！　Were　there　only　one　such　instance　in　all　the　chronicles　of　time；　it　should　doom　the　past　to　abhorred　oblivion。　Yet　injustice；　the　basest；　the　most　ferocious；　is　inextricable　from　warp　and　woof　in　the　tissue　of　things　gone　by。　And　if　anyone　soothes　himself　with　the　reflection　that　such　outrages　can　happen　no　more；　that　mankind　has　passed　beyond　such　hideous　possibility；　he　is　better　acquainted　with　books　than　with　human　nature。
It　were　wiser　to　spend　my　hours　with　the　books　which　bring　no　aftertaste　of　bitterness……with　the　great　poets　whom　I　love；　with　the　thinkers；　with　the　gentle　writers　of　pages　that　soothe　and　tranquillize。　Many　a　volume　regards　me　from　the　shelf　as　though　reproachfully；　shall　I　never　again　take　it　in　my　hands？　Yet　the　words　are　golden；　and　I　would　fain　treasure　them　all　in　my　heart's　memory。　Perhaps　the　last　fault　of　which　I　shall　cure　myself　is　that　habit　of　mind　which　urges　me　to　seek　knowledge。　Was　I　not　yesterday　on　the　point　of　ord